Défaite
by klytaemnestra
Summary: Nothing matters. Not himself, or ShinRa, or Midgar, or the fate of this whole godforsaken planet. TsengxRufus yaoi


**Notes:** Geostigma Rufus fic since I had been working on several for a while now ... and randomly wrote this after a night of insomnia. Possibly part of my arc … dunno yet, as Finding Beauty and I haven't really worked on anything post-Meteor yet in way of actual fics.

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_Défaite_

'What's happening to me?' Rufus murmurs to no one, fingertips tracing the discolouration marring his hand. It is the only visible evidence of his illness, all others hidden beneath layers of bandages and clothing, and a type of denial that he cannot let go of even now.

_'Sir, there have been fatalities in sector two and four. Isolated cases, but—'_

It's cruel irony to have survived the end of the world only to die slowly from an incurable disease. Rufus wonders some nights while Tseng sits alone in the study drowning his sorrows what it's all worth now, and what is to prevent him from taking an easy way out. What would be worse: to watch him succumb to this strange cancer, or find him dead on his own terms?

In the end, what would be easier for them all?

He knows the answer, and has on more than one occasion found himself with one of Tseng's handguns, torn between ending it in silence or calling the Turk to tell him he's sorry, and he loves him, and how it's better this way. Rufus is no stranger to entertaining thoughts of suicide, but his father had not driven him to the business end of a pistol and so he finds himself unable to admit defeat this way. _Tseng_ will not let him admit defeat, though he knows what choice his lover would make.

He suspects Tseng knows, for he's been careless in the past and left the gun unholstered on the bedside table. The Turk has said nothing on the matter however. Perhaps, he knows Rufus would never use a gun as his means of escape. But hadn't the Geostigma made vanity obsolete?

He finds it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not himself, or ShinRa, or Midgar, or the fate of this whole godforsaken planet. And he wonders when he stopped caring.

The room is dark when Tseng returns, his footsteps the only sound to announce his presence. He regards Rufus with a sad look, but says nothing and pours himself a drink. This cancer is killing them all.

The Turk steps toward the window, looking out into the night sky to view stars burning brightly in the heavens. 'You couldn't see the stars in Midgar,' Rufus' voice is barely above a whisper, and Tseng turns to look at him once more, studying the lines of his profile, the way the moonlight filters through and reflects off pale features.

'No,' he agrees after a moment, his hand reaching out to take Rufus', threading fingers together.

And then Rufus sighs, whatever lines of fragile conversation lost leaving Tseng once more at a loss as what to do about the state of his lover.

' _We'll beat this, Rufus. I swear it.'_

Empty words that no longer hold meaning.

Lips brush against soft strands of blonde, and Rufus turns away. 'Don't touch me,' fear, and self-loathing in his voice. 'Please.' Fearful of the Geostigma, or perhaps something more … what the Turk might do in the end. Better to push him away now, teach him to cope because it's only a matter of months, or weeks before he will no longer be able to continue this way, and then vanity wouldn't matter.

But Tseng does not listen, wrapping his arms about his lover and pulling him close, all the while Rufus thinks of the guns holstered beneath the Turk's jacket, his hand sliding against them. How easy it would be, the simplest action of curling his finger around the trigger, freeing himself from this living hell.

He leans up to touch his lips delicately against his lover's, his hand freeing the firearm, and he breathes a soft, 'Forgive me,' before the muted click of a vacant chamber.

Tseng's hand closed around Rufus', ejecting the empty magazine from the pistol, which lands against the carpet with a dull thud. Dark eyes narrow, his grasp tightening just barely. 'Do not think me so careless, Rufus,' the words hold no malice, only a firm reminder that there are still those who do care even now when he cannot find it in himself to any longer.

'You're not one to admit defeat.' Tseng is right. He has always been right. 'We'll fight this. Do you understand that?'

'Yes. Even if it's the death of me,' Rufus says wryly, releasing his grip of the gun to let it fall unnoticed to the floor, and clings onto the Turk, who sweeps him into his arms to lay him across the bed. 'Make me feel alive,' he whispers into the dark strands of Tseng's hair. 'Make me care.'

And Tseng does, hands pulling away at confining clothing. Lips trailing along his neck, and shoulders, careful not to disturb the bandages, before he enters him with a muffled cry. Their bodies falling into their oft-practiced rhythm, until Rufus arches against him with a sound of pleasure he cannot contain.

They lay together in the afterglow of their lovemaking; Rufus staring into the darkness as Tseng's arms come up behind him, his breath balmy against his collarbone. And he thinks this is why he goes on. To feel alive however brief the moments. He would not admit defeat. They were ShinRa, after all.

They would not go quietly.

_fin_


End file.
